


thorns that burst from my skull in the night

by AetherAria



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (sortaaaaa), Alternate Universe, Canon Compliant, Canon Retelling, Lizard Kissin' Tuesday (Penumbra Podcast), Multi, Prophetic Dreams, Second Citadel (Penumbra Podcast), canon typical Arum ignoring feelings, very mild suicidal ideation or at least. canon typical arum being reckless with his own life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23405749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherAria/pseuds/AetherAria
Summary: Arum has always seen glimpses of the future in his dreams. This gift is sometimes useful, but more often than not it leaves him with questions rather than answers. The dreams of the flowers are particularly unhelpful.
Relationships: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla (Penumbra Podcast)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this one on the back burner for a while, but I moved into a new apartment literally yesterday, everything is a mess, and I did NOT have time to write a proper chapter of my current WiP, so here's the first part of something new! because that's always a good idea what the heck. Title from the song Pyrrhic Victory by Minimall.

Arum dreams a garden. It is the reoccurring dream the lizard Lord wakes from most often. Wakes gently, which is an interesting change from the vast majority of his prophetic dreams.

It is more abstract than his augury usually is, a flurry of soft petals, a distant singing, and the twang of- _something_. Something he cannot place. Elements of the dream rise and fade as it reoccurs, dragging out between years as it becomes just another part of his life. At times it comes with the distinct clash of steel, at others he hears a second voice join the song, and still again he feels either a frighteningly delicate touch, or the bite of manacles at all four of his wrists.

It bodes ill, Arum thinks. Flowers and song, and _softness_ , it must either be a metaphor or an outright lie, and neither option puts him at ease. Even laced with the more ordinary threat of restriction and weaponry, he does not trust any of it.

He barters his services in exchange for access to the libraries of monsters he knows have an interest in botany, digs through tomes and guides until he can identify the other two of the three flowers from his dreams. The first he needs no assistance with; it is _him_. Always him, though it vacillates between the delicacy of the arum lily and the imposing spire of the titan arum. The other two, he finds with relative ease.

Honeysuckle, and amaryllis.

There is no direct connection between them, botanically speaking. They are unrelated entirely. They do not even _grow_ in the same places, which is worrying because it indicates that this dream is almost _certainly_ symbolic, and Arum abhors dealing in symbolism. It utterly undermines what little usefulness there is in his limited gift when he needs to wade through _interpretation_ to find any actionable information in his prophecy.

He grits his teeth through his research into flower symbolism. It is almost entirely useless. Most flowers seem to have a wild array of meaning attributed to them, sometimes with ideas that entirely oppose one another. Amaryllis consistently seems to carry connotations of pride and determination, which Arum does not find distasteful, but it also means radiant beauty, which Arum could not care less about. Honeysuckle is more worrying; the meanings are all so _soft_. Happiness, devotion, affection, generosity, bonds of love-

Saccharine sentimentality, and selflessness. Nothing a monster should do anything but sneer at.

Another version of the dream arises around this time. He sees himself as he was in youth, the smallest of reptilian whelps, sees himself curled and sleeping in the throat of a flower, something not uncommon even in his adulthood. However, this time the flower in question is a beautiful and over-sized amaryllis bloom, with the other version of himself clutching to the pistil, the entire scene infused with relief and restfulness and safety. Arum wakes and feels hollow, that morning. Feels cool, feels uncertain, feels irritated with himself and his augury before he shakes the softness and rises to work.

That one of the flowers is arum, is Arum himself, concerns him further. If one of the three represents him, it raises the possibility that the other flowers represent someone else as well. Two different someones, likely.

He plants each of the strange flowers in his greenhouse. It is an act of defiance, of course, an act meant to rob the prophesy of any power it might otherwise have. He makes the symbol into something literal, something he can brew into a poison or a tea, depending, something he can touch outside of his dreams.

 _There_ , he thinks viciously, tending to the plants as they grow, pruning and fertilizing and brushing his knuckles soft down vibrant leaves. _There. This mildest of prophesies is fulfilled. Here the flowers will be, and then the dream needs haunt me no more_.

The honeysuckle blooms first. It fills the greenhouse with the scent of subtle sweetness, and when Arum places a flower on his tongue it tastes like a loose sunbeam, it smells precisely as soft as all of its adjacent symbolism, it makes him feel-

Well. It doesn’t matter. It is only a flower, after all.

The amaryllis are slower, but the blooms come just as wild in their time. They could be useful, he thinks, for brewing certain poisons, but he does not pluck a single flower. He could not explain why. He does not _want_ to break any of those stems, and so he does not. It is enough of a reason in itself.

The dreams, of course, do not cease. They do soften, however. They come less often, but now the scent is more real in his dreaming snout, the sunbeam flavor filling his mouth until he could drown in it, but at least it is no longer a suffering of every single night. He may forget it, for days at a time.

He does not forget it. He could, he thinks. But he does not.

He hardly has time to worry over the matter anymore, anyway. His hard work and spotless reputation as an architect have (despite his other reputation as rather difficult to work with) gleaned him some arguably fortunate attention. Arguable, because while the eye of the Senate may be beneficial to him eventually, may earn him some protections or benefits he could not even predict, they are also powerful enough to threaten even Arum’s territory. If their attention turns sour, if they are unhappy with the results he produces (highly unlikely, his skill is _unmatched_ ), the repercussions could be severe.

The work is difficult. Demanding. It leaves little time for sleep, which allows him to avoid the dreams entirely, both those concerning his blooms and the other more troubling ones besides.

( _cavern dark and wet, no magic here, only blight, only threat, only steel and mud and hatred and fear so sharp it curdles in the air_ )

( _wilting song, wilting song_ )

( _squalling of hundreds, his denizens, his charges, afraid afraid afraid and ready, as any animal, to bite back_ )

( _weight unbalances, and so from the scale you must be_ )

Context. If the dreams gave even a _hint_ of context he could use the information, but as it stands-

Arum works. The Keep works with him. They need be tireless, they need work beyond their means. He finds the Moonlit Hermit (another flower of which he has dreamed relentlessly, though at least _those_ dreams had some _use,_ his contract with the Senate was predicated on the _certainty_ that he knew where to find the bloom) and the work is easier, then, if no less time consuming. He must continue until the Senate is satisfied, or-

( _wilting song, wilting song_ )

Or who _knows_ what they may do to his home. He is relentless. He _creates_. He ceases to take satisfaction in this work. There is no time for that, and the weapons that the Senate demands are cruel in a way that Arum finds distasteful, regardless. There is _skill_ in the work, of course, but Arum is diligent, and he samples his own poisons in safe quantity, and he knows what these things will do, to whomever the Senate turns them upon.

Arum does what he must. It was never his desire to make a crueler world, but-

But there is a war on. His desires pale in the shadow of it.

( _the moment the first stone was thrown_ )

He dreams the Citadel, which is almost certainly the worst of portents thus far. It is an augury that makes sense more quickly than is typical. If his newest project can be coerced into doing as he intends, if he can manipulate them to grow fast enough to please the Senate, the resulting creature will require a tether. A focus. A direction in which to aim its ire, and that will mean-

Infiltration.

He wrinkles his snout in distaste at the idea, and the feeling of human-carved stone under his claws echoes back out from the dream. He is going to have to infiltrate personally, perform the task on his own. If he asks the Senate to find another to seek what he requires for his work, it will show too much weakness. He has no choice. He is running out of time to give the Senate what they desire, and his Keep is ( _wilting song_ ) ill. And quickly becoming more so. He has no time. He has no choice. He must end this employment so he may turn his attention inward, so he may fulfill his deepest purpose.

He sharpens all his knives, and he does not sleep the night before he journeys out.

Perhaps this is foolish. His dreaming could give him some hint of danger, could allow him to see the troubles he may face, but he cannot stand relying on them, and he does not wish to attempt this reckless heist with the scent of flowers stuffed into his snout. If he fails, it will certainly be death, one way or another. He is willing to face that without debasing himself to the capriciousness of the dreams.

He will realize, later, that even if he had slept, the dreams would have only shown him the same as they had been showing for years.

Arum, and honeysuckle, and amaryllis.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Infiltration goes even less well than Arum expects it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warning for a bit of canon-compliant injury and blood. Also apparently we're doing short chapters for this one? I don't make decisions i just hit a line and i'm like THIS FEELS LIKE A CHAPTER ENDING. shrug!!!

The little human in between Arum and his goal has a voice that is yellow-bright and honey-sweet, distracting, ( _familiar_ ) and he certainly seems to enjoy using it.

The knight trades his bow for one of Arum's knives. Perhaps it is foolish to allow the little creature to set the terms of the fight, but-

( _clash of steel, blade on blade_ )

( _hand to hand to hand to hand_ )

( _in hand_ )

The knight has no finesse with the blade, but he adapts quickly, has clearly had sufficient training to use whatever tool he has access to, and his _movements_ are elegant even if his bladework is distinctly tragic.

He taunts as he parries, and Arum bites back an irritable laugh. _Stamina_. He almost wants to _bite_ him for that comment. The climb was exhausting, this is true, but perhaps he would be more energized for such a conflict if he hadn't been too stubborn to _sleep_ the previous night. Perhaps he could have avoided this encounter altogether-

The knight is more skilled than Arum anticipated. His secondary plan will serve well, though. Human architecture is remarkably exploitable, and if he just keeps this creature talking (an easy enough effort, he barely requires any prompting at _all_ ), he can continue to batter the correct stones, can weaken the structure enough to rattle this stone cage.

He cannot help the laugh, when the knight mocks his apparent clumsiness, and he needs a deflection so his opponent will not pay too close attention to Arum's feigned stumbling, so he asks a question of his own.

Poet, the knight says.

_Poet_ , and Arum repeats the word with too much glee and not enough mockery. Arum enjoys poetry, though not the kind that monsters tend to produce, as he discovered quite accidentally during his research on flower symbolism. Perhaps he dove too deep in that vein, but he does not regret that choice. Most monster poetry is too easy, too indulgent- saying exactly what you want to say in a poem is _boring_ , by Arum’s estimation. He would never admit as much aloud, but human poetry is wildly superior. The restraint of it, the challenge of using the language so deftly and precisely; a skillful human poet can provoke a rather intense satisfaction.

However, feeling _charmed_ by the profession of this human is terrifically unhelpful, and embarrassing besides.

“Delicate as- _honeysuckle_ ,” he says, too distracted to mind his tongue, and the dream rushes back to him in a flurry of petals and nectar a half-second too late. “And your blood-” ( _there is blood, blood and cloth and blood and cloth_ ) “shall be just as delicious, _takatakataka_.”

He tries to shake the dream. This cannot be it. _He_ cannot be.

( _you've merely confused yourself_ )

Arum clenches his teeth, lunges for the knight, misses shoulder-first into a corner. It is the last blow needed, and Arum laughs, hot and cruel, as the walls begin to tremble, debris shivering down ( _petals drifting_ ) from cracks in the ceiling ( _racing like vines_ ). With the barest bit of prompting it is enough to pull the focus of the poet-knight from him. He is more concerned with the tower than his own foolish life, and Arum slips into the shadows again, coiling, creeping, _ready_. It does not matter that the only thing he can taste, the _only_ scent in his snout is so bright and vivid that he is half worried that the knight can smell it too, that he will see the yellow glow.

" _Die_ , little honeysuckle," Arum snarls in the dark, the dream-memory of those words already in his mind, and he knows what will happen as soon as he pounces. He knows, but it is too late. He has already leapt.

The knight rolls around his attack, as elegant and inevitable as a droplet of water rolling down the center vein of a leaf, and Arum's own blade in his hand pulls a line open across his arm as he tumbles to the floor.

Arum-

Too distracted. The damned _dreams_ , he was too _distracted_ -

( _one cannot be expected to account for what one feels in the heat of_ )

No. That is an excuse. The knight, the poet, he is simply a more skilled fighter, a better combatant outright, and Arum pants on the floor with the sharp flare of failure and pain and hot red running down his arm. Arum feels death waiting to greet him, and he thinks that at least he _understands_ this dream before he is destroyed. Or- part of it, at any rate. Never mind denial, now. He may hate it, he may want to spit the flavor from his mouth, but-

Honeysuckle. _This_ is his honeysuckle. His honeysuckle, who will take Arum’s own blade now, who will put it to his pulse-

Who will lift Arum's blade-

( _and cut this lizard's throat_ )

Honeysuckle, who hesitates. Who says, “No.”

( _honeysuckle: affection, generosity, bonds of_ -)

Who says, “No, I don’t think I will.”

Who, instead, gives Arum a swatch of silk.

( _blood and cloth and blood and cloth_ )

He refuses to perform his duty. He unwittingly gives Arum the sole instrument of destruction that he requires. He deflects and flatters and challenges, and Arum does not _understand._

( _unfamiliar touch, pressed to his mouth as soft and gentle as petals_ )

Arum stares up at the human who should kill him, silk wrapped careful around his wound, and the taste of sunbeams is loose and wild on his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prelude to their second duel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is shockingly hard to write for how short these chapters are. Is it just Current Circumstances? or is it just that canon compliant retellings are difficult for me as a rule? who knoooooooooooows. Anyway! happy lizard kissin' tuesday, i hope y'all are keeping well, i love you!!!

Arum should throw himself into the task of using the scarf the foolish knight gave him to work on his weapon. He has no reason to honor his proposed duel, no further goal that returning will serve-

He washes away his own blood, folds the silk, re-wraps his wound while the Keep chastises him gently for his recklessness, and Arum is tired but he cannot afford to rest. He does not wish to see what the dreams will show him now, now that he knows the face of his flower, now that he knows the curve of that smile.

The scrap of silk will do, he thinks. The grubs attune to it easily, and Arum knows the most pressing challenge in their growth ( _throbbing, screaming, at the edge of the world_ ) has not been solved, but he has done as much as is in his power. The Hermit may influence life, may encourage it, may imbue its own eagerness ( _it's contagious, too?_ ) into that which surrounds it, but it is not a panacea. It cannot accelerate the growth of the grubs. Arum sighs over the writhing mass as they tickle the mind of the Queen, and he calls this task _sufficiently executed_. He wills a promising mass of the creatures to cocoon, and he sends them off with a coded missive explaining the intent of the creature, and its shortcomings. It must be enough. It _must_ be. The Senate knew the scope of his skill; they cannot expect him to solve the problem that is _time_.

So. He has done all he may do, for the moment.

There is no reason for Arum to fulfill the challenge Sir Damien set for him.

( _sunbeams loose on his tongue, laughter and bells and song, indistinguishable_ )

Regardless. Arum leaves the Keep, leaves behind further contemplation of the task set by the Senate for the latter half of the day. He weaves his work into the jungle, his most clever machinations and his most devious traps and his creations that should prove most effective against the little archer. He prepares, his tail and anticipation coiling as the chiming of the bells nearby ( _familiar_ ) mark the quickly passing hours, as they mark the approach of their duel.

And if these trees seem familiar too, if he is sure that he knows the shape of them, if he is so certain that he recognizes a gap in the underbrush and knows that the thistle-cage belongs exactly _there_ -

Well. It is an advantage, even if it rankles. The little honeysuckle wants him at his best, does he not? The dreams are a part of him; using them is only giving the knight what he desires. And if- _when_ Arum wins, tonight, and he takes the life of this little human as his prize, that will be the end of it. The end of these ridiculous soft dreams, and he will tear out the roots burrowing into the soil of his greenhouse, and he will never think of this again. That is what this vision is meant for. He is _certain_ , now. He is meant to destroy this little human and all his foolish softness and all his surprising skill, meant to pluck this bloom and devour it.

( _may I say a prayer before you_ )

He does not wish to dream again, but-

If he intends to perform at his best, he will require the rest. When he is content that he has set more than enough traps in motion among the jungle foliage, when he has planned potential routes for chase, when he is satisfied with his preparation, he finds a safe place among the high branches of _Rakschakala_. He curls in a crook of bark, surrounded by soft, breeze-blown ( _familiar_ ) leaves, and he sighs and relents and allows himself the briefest of rests, allows the influence of the magic in his mind to take him as it will.

His augury fails to be useful even now. Blood and cloth, drifting petals, amaryllis bright and distracting at the edge of his vision, and a racing heart so hot and vivid he can nearly taste it. And the other taste, of course. Honeysuckle on his tongue.

( _heart should swell the mind race the pulse quicken_ )

Symbolism so familiar it has lost all meaning, and the sorts of violent moments that would be perfectly at home in a duel, a _hunt_. All to be expected. Nothing he can _use_.

( _you are very close to_ )

( _kill you but I_ )

( _you, **monster** , must be the cause_)

( _I do_ )

It is dark when he wakes again. His mind is not settled, but it is clearer. All is set, and the knight will fall beneath his knives and his claws or, more anticlimactically, his traps and creations.

Arum finds his perch by the first of those traps and settles to wait, listening for Sir Damien’s footsteps, listening for the tolling of the bells.

Sir Damien is punctual. He arrives a few brief moments before the bells chime, their echoing musicality filling the jungle, magic rippling out, and Sir Damien's voice follows just as Arum lights the wick.

Arum realizes with a warm curl of shock that Sir Damien's words are as familiar to him as the pealing bells. They had not stuck in his memory, not properly, but- they have whispered through at the edges of his dreams for many long years.

( _my mind spins with thoughts of_ )

"Lord Arum, ruler of the Swamp of Titan's Blooms, with the cunning eyes and deadly claws-"

( _a greater rival I have never met_ )

The echo is almost too much to bear. The familiarity, the way Arum _knows_ , and it is so difficult to understand precisely what the poet is even _saying_ , because Arum is distracted by the way the words are bouncing between his own half-understood dreams and the true fluting of Sir Damien's voice in the open air.

It is _difficult_ to understand it. But there is more than one echo, and Arum's frill flares higher every time Sir Damien summons to voice the peculiarity of Arum's eyes.

( _I swear, I saw something human in_ )

"-his eyes, his violet eyes…" Damien trails off, and even from high above him Arum can see the strange fragility in the way the knight clutches his bow to his chest, almost as if he has forgotten it entirely.

( _I will fulfill my duty - and cut_ )

Arum can taste the tension coiling off of the knight as his strange dreamy tone shifts, his already-quickened heart speeding further, his panic swelling.

"No, no, Damien, you've-"

( _merely confused yourself_ )

Arum shivers at this particular echo, his own feelings from the day before pulsing again in the knight, the pheromones of fear and- something else, bright and familiar on the air.

Sir Damien settles himself, or attempts to at the very least, and Arum knows there is very little time before his trap springs, now. It would be entirely too anticlimactic to let the little creature be simply _crushed_ , of course, would defeat the point he is trying to prove with this rematch, so-

"Who is that you plan to slay?" he taunts as he drops down beside his foe, and the gasping, shocked _noise_ that Sir Damien gives at his appearance makes Arum's claws flex. He flicks his tongue in the air, feigns nonchalance, aggressive and just on the edge of too close.

Sir Damien is cool, now, though. Reserved. Intentionally so, but Arum still feels the deliberate distance like a pane of fogged glass, and he feels-

Cheated, somehow. The little blatherer can monologue to himself and his ridiculous Saint for ages before he knows he has an audience, but _now_ he does not wish to annoy his opponent with his words? Absurd creature, impatient for his own death-

More words hover at the edges of Arum's memory. There is more that Sir Damien will say, before Arum cuts his stem. It is _troubling_ that he is stifling himself now. It does not bode well.

He draws his own phrases out, threatening and taunting the poet with the doom he has sown for himself, with all the ways that Arum's skill may destroy him, tone predatory and indulgent.

"And all of them," Arum purrs, tail flicking, "for _you_."

"A present? Why, Lord Arum. We hardly know each other." Sir Damien smiles, and Arum _does not_ step closer, no matter the way the muscles of his calves tense with the urge, and then he registers the poet's words, in addition to the bouncing musicality of his tone.

A present.

( _weaving through the jungle with the most delicate care, the best work of his hands_ )

( _teeth but no blood_ )

( _an offering_ )

Arum splutters. He snarls and spits and slithers back a step, the mirth in Sir Damien's eyes too familiar and bright to stand.

The knight ( _honeysuckle_ ) may say whatever he likes, regardless. They are out of time, for banter. Arum set the duel in motion already, inexorable as the gravity that will bring his trap down. Arum forces his frill to settle, hisses something scathing, and he cackles as his foe is nearly crushed by the first blow.

"Catch me if you can," he crows, his heart already racing as Damien sprawls in the dirt, and he slips out of sight before the poet rises again.

He will win this duel. He _knows_ he will.

( _pinned beneath my claws_ )

He will slay this human tonight, and that will be that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arum has seen this duel piecemeal in his dreams already. None of this should come as a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pst love you. Happy LKT! It's dueling hours let's just chillllllll. OH RIGHT. Chapter specific warning for canon compliant moment of injury lol.

Even this darkness is familiar.

Sir Damien runs, an attempt at pursuit, and Arum slithers silently behind, taunting and jeering as the knight leaps and swerves, and Arum is focused, primed, strangely hungry-

( _gasping breaths racing heart crying out like song_ )

Arum was correct about the placement of the thistle-cage. Damien nearly trips over the thing, nearly falls right into the rat's fangs, and then he spins so elegantly before he fires-

The twang of a bow in the dark. Another memory manifesting, this night. Another piece of the dream falling into place, but then- was the noise not more musical than that? Arum cannot say, it is all so confused, and the knight is running again. Arum and the rat both give chase, above and below, and Sir Damien mutters to himself, revealing his position even further than his clomping human steps.

Damien evades Arum's traps, skillful and quick, though he cuts a number of his dodges rather close.

"Nearly plucked the little honeysuckle right out of his armor," Arum taunts, and-

( _your arm honeysuckle sit still let me_ )

( _gasping breaths racing heart_ )

( _like this Arum let me show you how_ )

He is still distracted, damned flowers on his tongue, the ghost of touch on his scales, and he barely has any attention for Damien's words or his own when Sir Damien stops.

Damien stops, right in the path of the rat, a morsel ready for the devouring.

No. Arum stares, confusion and frustration making him clench his claws in the bark of the tree beneath him. _No_. This is- this is _wrong_. The knight does not die like this.

( _pinned beneath_ )

"What? Why have you stopped?" Sir Damien does not die like this, and Arum's frill flares unseen in the dark. "The rat will _kill_ you, you fool!" he barks, tail thrashing against the branches in agitation, because the dreams are screaming in his mind and Damien does not die ( _a prayer, before you_ ) like _this_ , he should not fall to so unworthy a test, he is meant for Arum's teeth and claws- _meant_ to fall beneath Arum-

( _bare one of your_ )

Damien does not die. The rat dies instead, rough and unpleasant beneath another trap, and Arum buries a twinge of sympathy for his creation, because the duel is still on and there are other traps to spring. Sir Damien is… soft. Manipulable. Prone to that rotten human habit of selfless concern.

Very _knightly_ , Arum thinks with a sneer. Screaming through the jungle for his damsel, his _Rilla_ , his prize to rescue. Shriekweed draws him in so easily, a frantic little moth to the flame, and it is such a simple thing to drop from the branches above, to position himself as Damien plucks the flower, to bunch his muscles and flick his tail and _pounce_.

He collides with the solidity of the knight's body and they both thud into the dirt and Damien's gasping breath sounds _precisely_ like victory.

Victory, and Arum crows with it, taunting again, and Damien narrows his eyes, his lips pulling into a delicate frown, and Arum tries to pretend that he does not remember the shape of it already. He tries, but-

Arum already knows this feeling. Arum already knows Damien's shape, and his heat.

It is only pleasant as a victory. He reminds himself of that through the vague fog of the dreams. The sweet delight curling in his stomach is- is only that. _Victory_. The poet's frown does not pull on anything within him.

Prey. Damien is _prey_ , panicked and nearly writhing. Arum can _feel_ his heart.

His gasping breaths. His racing heart. Another echo pinned into reality, and Arum _wants_ -

"You are-"

( _petal-press against his mouth_ )

"-very close-"

( _teeth against the soft skin of his throat, warbling breathless cry, but no blood, no blood, only-_ )

"-to me," Damien pants, his cheeks dark and hot and _close_.

"So…" Arum's own breath leaves him. The memory, the visions cloud his mind in a flickering show, pages turning too fast, and the steady heat of the human beneath him makes his already-quickened pulse trip faster. "So… I am," he manages, and there is no flicker of violence left in the dream-memory, now. No violence. Only heat, and touch, and terrifying softness, and Arum's body is sinking down, settling closer against Damien beneath him, and-

And with the hot reality pressed flush against him, Arum can no longer deny it. Can no longer deflect, can no longer dig his claws into dirt and pretend the symbol is _enough_. He _wants_ what the dreams have shown him. He wants it, and he is terrified that allowing himself to _want_ will be all the more painful, when the dream fades, and the Universe puts him back in his proper place.

… his proper place, in which he is a monster, meant to kill this knight.

Meant to kill Damien, as the hot cheeked human pants close against him, and blinks up into his eyes.

"May I- say a prayer, before you kill me?"

Arum breathes, and his knives are in his hands, and his claws are sharp beside Sir Damien's warm, dark skin.

( _you can't do it, can you_ )

Arum clenches his teeth. He growls, low and barely controlled.

( _honeysuckle_ )

He can't.

"Bare one of your arms," he snarls, leaning back enough that Damien has room to obey.

Damien blinks, his expression too twisted with confusion to show any hint of relief. " _What_?"

( _kill you but I_ )

Arum shakes his head, teeth still bared. "Just do it!"

Damien stares up at him, and his cheeks flush even darker as he peels back his sleeve, as he shows his fragile skin to Arum, and Arum flicks his tongue without meaning to and he is strangely surprised when he doesn't taste the scent of honeysuckle on the air.

He tastes Damien, instead.

He pulls his claws down Damien's arm, the bright scent of blood distracting him ( _blood and cloth and_ ) as Damien cries out, and Arum knows that the Universe is not fair but _humans_ have such a preoccupation with the matter regardless, so perhaps-

"There," he sneers, not looking as Damien clutches the wound. "Now we're _even_."

"But…" Damien says, and Arum pulls himself up from the dirt, breathing, moving back, attempting distance. "I thought…"

Arum lets his mouth run, barely aware of his own words. This choice is absurd, but-

So had Damien's been, yesterday evening. If Damien can claim the match was unfair, Arum can say the same. It is not untrue, anyway, even if fairness should be the least of his concern. Of course he would refuse to be called a _cheat_ -

Not that the opinions of any other creatures matter one whit to him. No. Regardless, regardless, he has talked himself through the circle and it is apparently enough to throw the poet off his scent.

"I think I see what you mean-" Damien interrupts himself in a cry that makes Arum's frill press tight against his neck, and the poet clutches harder at his arm. "My, those claws of yours are sharp-"

( _blood and cloth_ )

Sir Damien does not die like this.

( _and blood and cloth_ )

"And you won't bleed out on me, either!" Arum snarls, bending to pull his claws through his cape, this time, freeing a strip of purple cloth. Damien watches him as he kneels again, wide-eyed and wondering, and now-

Now Arum _can_ taste flowers on the air.

"Delicate little honeysuckle…" he murmurs, and they are- too close, again. Too close. "A breeze could rip your petals off…"

A breeze could. Arum does not want to.

"But- you've torn your cape," Damien points out, his fluting voice going nearly sing-song, and Arum's teeth clench compulsively.

"And you stole your Queen's scarf!" Arum looks away again for only a moment, wrinkling his snout in something like despair. "Seems we're in the business of bleeding on priceless cloth. Now- hold _still_."

He wraps the bright fabric tight around Damien's soft skin before he can change his mind, staunching the blood, pretending not to feel the knight shiver at the touch of claws gone softer, this time.

Damien breathes, stares, shivers, as Arum ties off the makeshift bandage.

"… thank you, Lord Arum," he breathes.

Arum flinches, and then he bares his teeth, crowding closer against the knight in a threat.

"If you _thank_ me one more time I'll tear your throat out with my _teeth_ ," he snarls, and-

( _teeth against the soft skin of his throat, warbling breathless cry_ )

Damien looks-

( _no blood, only_ )

Far less afraid than he should.

Arum watches Damien swallow, his breath gone shallow again, and Arum feels his own heart speeding. Damien is so- _warm_.

"I will… certainly keep that in mind," Damien murmurs, and the poet is close enough to-

Close enough to-

( _try this_ )

A voice calls out through the night, reminding Sir Damien who he is. Where he belongs. A real voice, this time, and Arum rolls away from Damien with his heart still thudding too fast, and this evening- what almost passed between them, whatever it was-

A dream.

( _I can't believe it's really_ )

Whatever feelings, whatever possibilities the dreams present, they are only fleeting. They will shred beneath Arum's claws as easily as his own cape. They will not support his weight- he cannot forget. He cannot allow himself to rest upon them.

Arum has seen one more duel. One more clashing of blades, to ( _remind you_ ) break this tie.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow this will end, and one way or the other, Arum will have peace again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arum will not be attending his third duel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is almost late. havin a weird brain time over here. hope this is anything? i love you. please love and appreciate and kiss a lizard.

The grubs that went unused are not in their container when he returns home, after the duel.

He stops listening to the Keep's gentle berating in the middle of a thought as he realizes the vanishwood box is silent, the pulsing heartbeat stopped, and when he passes his hand in front of the side it confirms his grim suspicion. He goes to undo the lid, snarls to himself when he finds it already askew, and when he opens it fully to check again it confirms what he already knows.

Gone.

They are nowhere within the Keep. They are not even within the swamp, so far as the Keep can sense. They could not _possibly_ have gotten that far on their own since last Arum saw them, which means-

He hisses through his teeth at his own carelessness. Tired, distracted enough to leave the lid ajar- the sort of mistake a clumsy hatchling would make, and with so valuable and dangerous an experiment. Were he not so _busy_ he would find a hole in which to bury himself.

Arum imagines the creatures clinging to his clothing, or stowing away in the traps he brought with him to the jungle outside the Citadel, slipping away into the night. The raw empathetic power of that many of the grubs could eviscerate the local life-

More importantly, if the grubs scattered that close to the Citadel, they might create something of a _fuss_ , and Arum cannot possibly afford for his creations to be sniffed out and investigated by the humans. The Senate would never forgive their pet project being compromised in such a way.

Arum unclenches his hand, pulling his claws from the wood, and he hisses again as his shoulders sag.

No sleep, no rest, no settling his mind- he will need to return to the more human-infested parts of the Wilds, to reclaim his property. The Keep chides again, tries to discourage, and he is _so tired_ but he cannot afford to leave this matter unsettled. The grubs are too dangerous, their implications too delicate to fall into human hands.

He closes his eyes for a moment ( _what's right in front of_ ), steels himself, and summons the way back. The sprinkling of swamp dirt he left near the Citadel will still serve, for the time being.

  
  


He finds the swath of destruction, eventually, after a frustrating and lengthy search. He would have needed to come back to dismantle the rest of the traps that Sir Damien did not trigger in their duel eventually, anyway, he thinks grimly. No sense letting good tools rot without reason. But nowhere amongst his carefully laid machinations does he find the grubs. He does not find them, no trace of them, until hours later when he follows the scent of ash, until the sickly but dissipating clouds of pink in the air lead him to the remnants of battle.

So. He was not quick enough to find the grubs before they found something _else_.

Settled bursts of spores, he finds, and charred earth, and eventually, the hollowed, burnt-out shell of fungi, enormous and still shivering the air with residual magic, though it is no longer alive.

He had been expecting _human_ corpses, in all honesty.

Arum inspects the burnt rot, and he finds more evidence of flame around the base. Charred grubs cluster quiet beneath what is left of the stem, dry and lifeless, but-

Arum scrapes a claw through the ash. It is still just slightly warm- he must not have missed the excitement by terribly long. He eyes the remnants, critical, his head tilting sideways.

This was not _all_ of his grubs. They were not _all_ destroyed. Which is far more worrying than the alternative.

It is not difficult, to track the scent of human and horse back through the jungle, to follow the clumsy, careless steps back out of the trees. By scent he surmises that the second human and the horse have departed- he will need to investigate that if he does not find the grubs here, in this quaint little structure.

He spies her through the window, first, noting the sheathed knife she has already removed, hung by the bed, and-

Hm. She looks nearly as exhausted as Arum feels.

( _I'm- sorry_ )

Not that it matters.

( _morning, little human_ )

She stops speaking into the little device of metal and gears in her hand after a moment or two, tucks the vial onto a shelf, and turns for the bed. As she pulls her sheets back, Arum shatters the window.

It's easy enough to slither low, to disorient, to pluck the knife away and glower at the human over his remaining, reclaimed grub as his claws clink against the vial, and he does not let himself think about the way the dreams have begun to hover again.

He has not slept properly in so very long. That fact and the unfortunate echo of Sir Damien are the only reasons he can see the dancing of petals at the edge of his vision, can hear the vague whisper of song.

She puts up an admirable struggle, but she is only one unarmed human. Unarmed and exhausted, and he eases her to the floor when he knocks her unconscious. He shakes his head, then, trying to clear it, trying to silence the noise.

So. He has his experiment safely back in hand. Now, he must discover whether she has already informed the rest of her swarm about the creature and its capabilities.

He listens to the little human’s fascinating device, listens to her chatter about her apparent "experiments" with so much enthusiasm that it is almost catching. He toys with the machine until he has a sense of how to work it, and then he sets it to what he thinks must be the most recent entry.

He chose the wrong end of the spool, however. From the sound of her enthusiasm, from context, he imagines that the entry he has found must be the _first_ , not the last. Unlikely to be helpful, for his purposes. He brushes his thumb across the controls, a frown curling his lips, and then the human's voice on the device introduces herself.

Amaryllis.

When he hears the word, he nearly drops the device entirely. All of his hands scramble in the effort of keeping it from shattering on the floor, and two claws just barely manage to catch it by the corner. He pulls the thing to his face again. He presses the button to go back. He listens again. He listens a third time, only to be certain.

Amaryllis.

( _the honeysuckle blooms first, but the amaryllis come just as wild in their time_ )

Her name is Amaryllis.

He throws over her entire little hut, looking for evidence of deceit, looking for proof, finding the hidden cache beneath the floorboards and scrabbling through journals (coded; though he recognizes her sketches and he understands the half-written formulae), and he finds that this little creature has quite the heretical bent, for a human. Heretical, and botanical.

( _a hatchling curled safe in the soft, fragrant bell_ )

Well. Finally this dream provides him something useful. An herbalist interfering with his work, just at the moment her particular skills could be of the most _use_ to him. Just when his Keep is-

( _wilting song_ )

Ill.

He can feel it in his own body. The creeping blight has not begun to wither his own scales, not yet, but the reverberation of what ails the Keep is within him all the same. A feeling of terrifying stiffness, a vague disquiet that makes his fingers shake, and day by day it worsens.

It worsens, and a doctor has just fallen into his lap.

It is not as if he could have let her go regardless. She knows too much of his work, she cannot be allowed to relay the information to the knights, to their _queen_. According to her device, this human has not had time to tell anyone about his work, and she does not yet understand it. But that does not mean that the information she _does_ have would not be far too dangerous to allow to leak, and she has seen him now, besides. No. He cannot simply let her free, now.

So. He may as well see if he can glean any use from her. No sense in wasting talent, human or otherwise, when it presents itself to him.

If the dreams help him save his Keep, he thinks, he will never again begrudge them a shattered night of sleep.

He tucks the recorder into his satchel, alongside the grub, and he reaches down-

( _please, off your feet_ )

He pauses, blinks, shakes his head, and then lifts Amaryllis into his arms.


End file.
